Zombie apocalypse fiction – Ruth’s story #143 On the road to Kayak Point & caravan components #TEOTWAWKI #SHTF #WCS

As per our usual SOP, the convoy is flanked by the Scouts riding various motorcycles, ATVs and UTVs. Some of the Scout’s motorcycles adapted to the lesser-quality fuel than did others. The Scouts riding singularly on the motorcycles usually zip ahead ensuring the route is clear.

The older children assigned to the Scouts riding in the armed and lightly armored ATVs and UTVs all have frequency agile field radios. While the motorcycle Scouts zip to and fro, the ATVs and UTVs stay on our flanks providing additional armed security.

Bill, driving the largest fuel tanker, is in the center of the convoy. Pulled from a wrecked deuce and half, the pintle mounted Ma Deuce ring turret mounted in the roof of the semi looks awkward but functions. Bill’s trailer is protected by a tripod-mounted M60E centered on the fuel tank’s roof with a 360 degree firing ability.

I just hope the kids on the fuel tank’s roof are smart enough not to shoot the back of Bill’s cab. Bill’s single, ginormous tanker truck is protected by his wives in a pair of armed and armored Polaris RZR UTVs, and his older children on various ATVs.

The family’s young children are in the back of the snow plow along with the rest of the convoy’s younger children. The kids will serve as grunt labor on this trip. Removing them from the village also prevents the children from being used as hostages.

Our Scouts report that the route to Kayak Point is mostly clear of dead vehicles, but the snow plow is the vanguard of the convoy so she goes with us. From the way that Sam and Doc are coordinating several return runs to the village I suspect there is some worry of a coup while we are gone.

I realize that we are leaving enough personnel behind with enough weaponry that they should be able to fend off any coup attempt. I also realize that Sam and Doc are realistic enough to pull almost everything out, just in case. So it was no surprise when we loaded all of the critical radio equipment, leaving behind just a few old field radios.

Nguen, Carol and Nikola are in a deuce and half with all the radio gear. Nguen mans the M2 .50 in the roof ring mount turret. On the ass, Junior and the Princess’s daughter man a Mk 19 40mm grenade launcher in the bed, along with a few other assorted weapons.

I also realized that all the personnel coming with us are the majority of who will continue travelling north (at least at this moment – fuck!). We are taking most of the vehicles with us leaving only those that are unable to travel now, such as the mortar Stryker due to mechanical problems.

The smoke belching M35A1 deuce and halfs loaded with coal, food, fresh water, repair parts and weapons are coming along. The ancient fuel flexible deuce and halfs are the real work horse of the convoy. Belching black smoke, their turbos whistling, thank God the deuces are behind Shack and I.

Able to run on the noxious blend of transmission fluid, used motor oil, used cooking oil, and just about any other flammable liquid, the deuces if the break down are going to be impossible to replace. Nothing else is as flexible fuel wise as the old trucks, many of which date to the mid-1950s. Even Sam and Doc’s overloaded dilapidated VW station wagon is coming along. As Shack refers to it, the colonel’s station wagon has also been redneck up-armored just like our old truck.

Some of the lads wanted to go all Mad Max when they were attaching the armor to the civilian vehicles, but the colonels would not have it. The vehicles are heavy enough and look stupid enough without putting spikes, blades, and other stupid shit on them.

Officially, the colonels are calling the Kayak Point movement a test of the vehicles running the witch’s brew of biodiesel, used motor oil, transmission fluid and ethanol plus whatever other flammable liquid that will burn in the old multifuel turbocharged engines. In reality, I believe both groups are growing apart and could use a break from each other.

I was not at all surprised to see Honey sitting on the bench seat between Shack and I. On the transmission hump, LM sits on the floor at her feet. As long as the kid does not bump the stick shift, or get in the way, I do not care.

Honey stuffed some blankets and toys down there for LM to play with while we travel. Thankfully, LM is already potty trained so we are not going to have to worry about diaper changes.

Firing up the old diesel, I jump into the cab of the truck, now more cramped with four people and all of our weapons in it. Shack and some of the mechanical lads rigged an internal roof rack for our long guns. We still carry our pistols, grenades, and machine pistols.

Shack now has an ancient FDE, formerly USMC M32A1 40mm grenade launcher with four speed loaders. In the OD canvas bag at his feet are low and medium velocity rounds. The old US Army HE 40mm grenades have a five yard kill radius.

Lying on the dash against the window between us is an ancient Mossberg 590A with a speed feed stock. The Mossy (as Shack calls it) used to be black, but now is more bare metal and rust. The old shotgun’s barrel has been chopped flush with the trunnion for the magazine tube.

An extended magazine tube sticking out past the end of the barrel allows two more 12 gauge rounds to be loaded in the gun. The magazine tube sticking out past the muzzle does not affect the shot from the old gun. A super full, ported turkey choke sticks out of the muzzle. I notice a bunch of 12 gauge shotgun shells in the cab, jammed in every nook and cranny.

Someone chopped the old Mossberg shotty (another Shack term) correctly and not hacking it off with a saw. Someone took the time to have the shotgun barrel chopped and then threaded to accept standard Mossberg 12 gauge chokes. The extended magazine tube is scorched where the flame from the choke porting has burnt the finish.

Jamming my old Kevlar helmet on my head and buckling the chin strap I grimace at the weight of the old helmet. Grabbing my pony tail, I look at the split ends and sigh. I tuck my pony tail under my field jacket and zip it up to my neck.

“Ruth I will help you wash and braid your hair when we get to Kayak Point tonight,” Honey says. Nodding at Honey,  I climb into the idling old Dodge.

Slamming the door shut, we fall in line in the convoy. We are the third vehicle behind the colonel’s VW and the leading snow plow. Carol and Nikola with the radio gear are behind us. The moveable feast is on the road again. I guess there is an old Country and Western song with the words “on the road again” that Shack is trying to sing. God his singing is horrible!